Books are not life, only its ashes.

A being afire with life cannot foresee death; in fact, by each of his deeds he denies that death exists.

To stay in one place and watch the seasons come and go is tanatmount to constant travel: One is traveling with the earth.

The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.

Every hour has its immediate duty, its special injunction which dominates all others.

Of all our games, love's play is the only one which threatens to unsettle the soul.

The mask, given time, comes to be the face itself